


Hollow

by brentdax



Series: Hermione Last Drabble Writer Standing Entries [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Camping Trip From Hell, Can You Imagine The Smell, Gen, Godric's Hollow, I Was A Teenage Boy Once, I Was Gross Too, I mean, Not A Real Drabble, Someone Get Hermione A Pallet of Febreeze, You Would Whine Too If You Were Stuck In A Tent With Two Teenage Boys For Months On End, i would know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-26
Updated: 2007-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:54:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brentdax/pseuds/brentdax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione ruminates on the things both she and Harry are missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> This short fiction (it's somewhere between a double and triple drabble) was my sixth entry in round two of the [Hermione Last Drabble Writer Standing](http://hermione-ldws.livejournal.com/) contest, which I ultimately took second place in. The prompt for this round was:
> 
> "The Harry Potter books are told from Harry's perspective. This week, you must drabble about an event in Deathly Hallows, but from Hermione's point of view. And for extra fun, it must be in the first person."

In the moment when the tears began to run down Harry’s face, it strikes me how very alone we both are.

Harry’s parents lie still in the frozen ground beneath us. If he returned to his home--the one in this town, the one he had never had a chance to grow up in--he would find it cold and empty. Many of the adults who had helped him through his life--Professor Dumbledore, Sirius--are as absent as his parents; the rest--the Weasleys, the Lupins--pace in gilded cages, unable to comfort or even see him.

But for the first time, I realize it’s the same for me. My home--just as lonely. My parents--wouldn’t recognize me. My mentors--gone or absent. I’ve always been independent, but this--

I want to cry, but I’ve done that so often lately; now it’s Harry’s turn, and I must stand silently in support. I take his hand, as much for myself as for him, and he squeezes as if he’ll fall from a precipice if he loses his grip.

His breathing calms after a moment. He’s looking around as if to find flowers to pick; I quickly conjure a wreath and he sets it upon the grave. For a moment I feel as though the grave is for not only his parents but mine; then it passes. It’s time to go, to hoist the world back onto our shoulders.

At least we have two sets of shoulders to do it with. As strong as Harry is, he’d be crushed if he tried to bear it alone.


End file.
